


Second Glances

by spikesgirl58



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom, NCIS
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 23:02:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate:  Gibbs, what did Ducky look like when he was younger?<br/>Gibbs:  Illya Kuryakin</p><p> </p><p>Illya Kuryakin walks into a bar and meets Leroy Jethro Gibbs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Glances

 

Kate:  Gibbs, what did Ducky look like when he was younger?

Gibbs:  Illya Kuryakin

                                                                                ****

It was like a dozen other bars he’d been in.  Illya Kuryakin didn’t care much about the name of this one or the beer they had on tap.  He didn’t care about happy hour, the band that would be appearing to celebrate the change of the decade or if they were voted number one by their patrons. 

He was weary and just wanted some time to himself.  Napoleon’s plane would land in three hours and Illya would be there to meet him.  Until then, Illya would pursue a course of ‘let’s pretend’ with his shot glass.

Let’s pretend the mission hadn’t ended badly.

Let’s pretend they were making a difference.

Let’s pretend that two good men hadn’t died for any other reason than Illya had been too slow on the uptake.

Illya rubbed his eyes, wincing at the sensation.  He was so tired his eyes ached, but no matter.  In a few hours, it would be over.  He and Napoleon would hand over the formula to the Los Angeles office and it would be their burden.  It had already cost UNCLE more than Illya cared to think about. 

He sat down on the end stool, ordered vodka neat and began to study the other people in the bar.  There was a boisterous group, military from the looks of their uniforms, playing pool.  A few of the tables and other stools were taken.   He recognized no one and no one apparently recognized him.  He rested his back against the wall and listened to the sound of his own breath.

A young solider walked in and settled at a table not far from Illya.  Illya recognized the uniform as Marine.  Duly noted, he returned to his drink and his thoughts.

A shout interrupted him and Illya felt as if he was waking from a dream.  He blinked and looked around at the source of the sound.

“Hey, Leatherneck, how come they let you out without an escort?”

“Looking for some action, Sailor Boy?”

“Why don’t you take on a few of the Army’s finest and we’ll settle this once and for all?”

The voices blended into one big jumble of sound.  The uniforms from the pool table had surrounded the Marine and were hurling insults.  Or at least, Illya assumed they were insults.  The men were pretty intoxicated and their words slurred badly. 

“Okay, when their finest get here, wake me.  Right now all I’m seeing is a bunch of wannabe soldier boys not tough enough to handle wiping their asses.”  There was stunned silence at the Marine’s comment.  Then one soldier reached out and shoved the Marine, who came to his feet, eyes narrowed. 

For a moment he stared at the group and Illya swore he saw the soldiers pale.  Then slowly the Marine retrieved his hat from the table, shook his head, and walked away.  He muttered something as he passed the apparent leader of the pack and the soldier glared.  Illya wished the bar sound had been a little less.

The group jeered and shouted obscenities at the Marine as he settled his hat on his head and made his way out.  Then there was a quick conference and the group split up.  Half went out the front door and the other half headed for the back. 

“This was not good,” Illya murmured as the bartender came up to him and poured him another drink.

“Nope.”

“Someone should warn that Marine.”

“Yup.  Fool’s errand, though.  Those guys, they come in here at least twice a week.  They are from the camp down the way.  They are mean drunks.”

“Then it is good that I am sober and twice as mean.”

It wasn’t hard to find them.  Illya just listened for the unmistakable sounds of a fight.  Seven to one was not good.  They had the Marine down on the ground.  Down was very bad.  Illya waded in.

Two men were unconscious before the group even realized they’d been infiltrated.  Illya did his best to distract attention away from the downed man, but there seemed too many for that.   So, with typical Kuryakin determination, he thinned the herd and hoped the Marine could hold out.

The leader, a large man, had grabbed a rock and was about to bash in the Marine’s face when he suddenly realized he was looking down the barrel of Illya’s P-38.

“You need to decide which is more beneficial to you, the murder of an innocent man or your death.”

“This isn’t your fight!”

“Anytime an innocent person is threatened, it quickly becomes my fight.”

“He’s got no right to insult us!”

“He is a Marine.  I think that gives him ample right.  However, if you prefer, you can take up your fight with me and my comrades.  We are reputed to have a much more refined sense of humor.”

The rock was thrown aside.   “Who the hell are you?  Air Force?”  He made the mistake of trying to rush Illya.   Without a twitch, Illya fired and the man staggered a few steps.

“KGB.  We are a bucket of laughs.”

The man dropped and the Marine managed to drag himself to his feet.

“What did you do that for?”  His face was bloodied but angry.  “He put the stone down.”

“He was also going to attempt to rush me.  Apparently the fact that four of his friends are also unconscious was not enough of a motivator for him to sit quietly and await his fate.  I wanted him to stay put for the military police.”  Illya took out his communicator.  “Open Channel L, please.”

“Channel L open.  Illya, is that you?”

“It’s is indeed, Sarah.  I am currently in San Diego.  Would you be good enough to contact the local army base and tell them that there was a confrontation at…” Illya turned his head to look at the soldier.  “What is the name of this bar, please?”

“Uh, Flannigan’s Shaft.”

“Thank you.  Flannigan’s Shaft.  There are five men down; one has been shot with a sleeper.  Stand by.”  Illya dropped the communicator.  “Sir, do you require medical assistance?”

“No, just answers. A lot of them.”

“That will be all, Sarah.”

“They’re on their way.”

“Thank you.”  Illya started to put the pen away, but his wrist was gripped in an iron grasp.  He paused and locked eyes with the Marine.

“What is that and who the hell are you?”

People were starting to join them and Illya shook his hand free.   Quickly, he tucked the communicator back into his jacket pocket.  “It’s a little too public out here to answer your questions.  Shall we retire to the bar and allow the military police to do their business?”

                                                                                                ****

Illya gave the man credit.  He waited long enough for them to find a table tucked into a far corner and their drinks to catch up before he leveled his ice cold stare at Illya.

“I’m waiting.  You said you were KGB out there.”

Illya downed the shot of vodka and smiled as the liquor hit his stomach and exploded in familiar warmth.  “That part was an exaggeration, but it does tend to capture the imagination of my foe.”    Illya offered his hand.  “I am Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.”

“Sounds Russian.”

“Ukrainian.  There is a difference.  As much difference as, one would say, an Army soldier and a Marine?”  He poured another shot.  “And you are?”

“Leroy Jethro Gibbs.”

“Why were those soldiers determined to end your existence, Lt. Gibbs?”

“Private.”

“Excuse me?”

 “I’m just a private.”

 “I recognize the uniform if not the rank.  Excuse me.”

“You just saved my life.  I think it’s worth a pass… this time.”  Gibbs smiled and then winced, touching a finger to his split lip.  “You still haven’t answered my question.  Who the hell are you?”

Illya took his ID wallet out of his pocket and placed it on the table. “I work for an international agency.”

Gibbs looked at the wallet and tossed it back.  “Never gave paper much credit, but I saw what you did out there.  What did you mean that soldier was shot with a sleeper?”

“My agency, we specialize in going into bad situations and helping them reach a better conclusion.  It is better to leave behind a sleeping enemy than a dead one, just in case you need to revisit him at a later date.”

“You mean, your conclusion, don’t you?”

“My agency works with the governments of the world.  We are specially trained to go in and get results.  We are not unlike your Marines.   We do not endorse crime, corruption, or personal gain.  We are there for the betterment of the people.”

Gibbs made an odd noise.  “Must be rough on the wife and kid.”

“We are not permitted the luxury.”

“Keeping the world safe for my girls, it’s what keeps me going.”  Gibbs dug a picture out his pocket and held it up for inspection.

“They are lovely and worth fighting for.”  Illya was starting to feel a soft fuzzy sensation creeping in.  It would be nice to drink the night away and not worry about insane megalomaniacs, twisted and corrupt geniuses.  It would be nice to have a little family to fight for as opposed to carrying the responsibility of the world on his shoulders.

“Why do you do it?” 

“Why do you?  Because I can.  Because it is the right thing to do.”

“Why are you in San Diego?”

“My partner is due to land here in another hour.  We are on an errand.”

“Sensitive mission?”

“World ending, I should think, if we fail.”  For a moment, they sat quietly, each with their own thoughts.  “Why were those men so determined to pick a fight with you?”

“Why was the US so determined to pick a fight with the USSR or vice versa?  There are folks who can’t bear the thought that they aren’t the biggest and the baddest.  They have to go around proving it.  Isn’t my fault they weren’t good enough to be a Marine.”

 Illya raised his glass and clinked it against Gibbs’s.  “May we one day see peace and acceptance for everyone, even between the Army and the Marines.”

“You are unlike any Soviet I’ve ever met, Illya Kuryakin.”  Gibbs sipped his bourbon carefully.

“You have met many?”

“Nope.”

“The few Marines that I have encountered seemed determined to help me shed my mortal coil.  It has been an evening of firsts.”  Illya glanced at his watch.  “I must go now.  Will you be okay, Private Gibbs?”

“Just call me Jethro.  Man who saved my life, we should at least be on a first name basis.”

“Very well, Jethro.”  Illya passed him a card. “If you are ever in New York, look me up.”

“How do I do that?  There’s just your name on the card.”

“It’s easy.  Call information and cry uncle.  I will find you.  It was good to meet you, Private Leroy Jethro Gibbs.”

“Right back at you, Illya Nichovetch Kuryakin.”  Gibbs stuck out his hand.  “For what it’s worth, you’d make a helluva Marine.  And thanks for saving my ass out there.”

“For what it’s worth, you’d make a good Russian.  Enjoy your life with your wife and child and that is repayment enough.”  Illya shook the offered hand and left.  He paused at the door and Jethro was on his feet, saluting him.  Illya smiled and snapped forward in a sharp bow.  As he made his way to his vehicle, Illya inwardly wished the young Marine well. 

 

                                                                                *****

Years passed and when Gibbs spotted Illya walking into a bar in Washington DC, his mouth dropped open.  The Russian was basically unchanged.  His hair was a bit darker and his waistline thicker, but for the most part, he was still the same man who’d saved his hide those many years ago.  Gibbs had thought often about Illya and his invitation to New York.  There was a time just after Shannon and Kelly died that he very nearly took out that tattered and dog-eared card and made a call.  He didn’t know what stopped him. 

Now, here was the Russian, looking no worse for wear and Gibbs approached him, his hand out in greeting.  “ _Dobryj vyechyer **,**_ Comrade Illya.  Shoot any Army jerks to sleep lately?”

The blue eyes behind the glasses were confused, very confused.  “I’m sorry, young man, but I fear you have mistaken me for someone else.”

“You’re not Illya Kuryakin?”

“No, I am Dr. Donald Mallard, but my friends called me Ducky.” He held out his hand.  “And, I’m afraid I haven’t shot anyone in the military recently, but when I served in The Regiment…”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
